


A Tale by a Warm Fire in the Darkest Night

by TerraInfirma



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Celebrations, Holidays, Secret Crush, Story within a Story, Storytelling, Winter Solstice, good vibes only
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:35:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28312440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerraInfirma/pseuds/TerraInfirma
Summary: On the darkest night of the year, a stranger visits a small farming village to find that he has arrived just in time for a celebration at the tavern. To honour a hero of local legend, every year the villagers come together to share what they have, drink and be merry. And a young man, too nervous to join in the revelry, is only too happy to offer the newcomer the gift of a story.Consider this my Christmas gift to AO3: a short, wholesome holiday-adjacent Witcher fic.





	A Tale by a Warm Fire in the Darkest Night

**Author's Note:**

> The timeline on this is a little fuzzy, but it happens at some point after The Last Wish, but well before Geralt and Ciri meet. See the end note for the rest, but I don't want to point anything else spoilery up here.

In the raucous laughter and song that rang through the tavern, no one seemed to notice the stranger in the hooded cloak who slipped through the door. Outside, the darkest night of the year was a moonless sky with biting wind and blowing snow, but inside all were welcome here to enjoy the warmth of the fire. On this night, the people of the village drank and sang and mocked the darkness, for they had strength and fellowship in each other that would carry them through the winter months. The harvest had been good this year, and there was enough to justify what passed for a modest feast in this place.

Tomasz sat at the bar, watching as the miller's daughter, Natalia, danced while his friend Piotr played fiddle for her and his cousin Kacper sang and clapped. Natalia, with her hair like a bonfire and a laugh like spring. Natalia, who Tomasz had loved since they were awkward children playing in the stream behind the village and it had suddenly occurred to him, as her wet skirt clung to her, that some day he would quite like to kiss her. Of course, he was never as bold as Piotr was, and he had accepted that they would only ever be friends. Perhaps he would be her and Piotr's children's godfather someday. For the life of him, Tomasz couldn't understand why Piotr had yet to ask Natalia for her hand. He was tall, handsome and his family were well-regarded in the community which was the closest one came to wealth or power in this place. The village of Łapy, located in a quiet part of Redania that kings and conquerors generally let alone, was built on the remains of a long-ago sect that had held all property in common. The unorthodox religious practices were almost entirely discarded, but they had more-or-less kept the spirit of cooperation and pooling of resources going and they had found it worked for them. All families had their own small garden, but the fields, the cattle and most of the pigs were grown and raised as a group effort.

“Another pint, Tomasz? On the house, this one.”

Tomasz nodded and accepted the clay mug of ale. It was traditional for everyone to get the first two drinks provided by the innkeeper for free on solstice night here, with the expectation that gifts would follow and everyone would pitch in to tidy up the next day, but this would be his third. Fourth, if you counted the bottle of his grandma's wódka that Kacper had passed around before he and Piotr had been called over to the fire to play. Tomasz was a bit of a lightweight, and it was already starting to go to his head. Perhaps that is why he did not notice at first when the broad-shouldered man in the snow-dusted travelling cloak sat beside him. Or perhaps he was still too busy watching Natalia's skirts whirl, silhouetted by the hearth behind her.

“They play well.”

Startled, Tomasz turned to face the source of the unfamiliar voice who spoke with a gravelly, though not unpleasant, baritone. With his hood up, it was difficult to see his face, but Tomasz could see the glint of mail armour under black leathers. A silver pendant caught the firelight, designed in the shape of a snarling wolf's head. No heraldry or insignia Tomasz recognized. By the snow-white lock of hair that escaped the hood, he would have expected the stranger to be elderly, but he sat up straight and carried himself like a man still in his prime. Unsure what to say, Tomasz nodded.

“Tell me, what is the occasion? I confess I have not passed through here at this time of year before.”

“M-midwinter's N-n-night.”

Tomasz hoped the stranger could not see his face turn bright red. His stutter was always at its worst around strangers, and this newcomer had an intimidating air about him that made it even worse.

“A Solstice party? I suppose I should have figured that out.”

The stranger placed a coin on the bar, not removing his hood yet, and gestured towards Tomasz's mug before requesting one for himself. The barkeep nodded and filled another mug, which the stranger immediately took a long drink from, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Seems like a pretty big party. Nearly the whole village must be in this room.”

He turned his head and Tomasz, following his gaze, could see him watching a the blacksmith's widow as she crossed the room towards the hearth. She was a sturdy woman, handsomely beautiful though too old for Tomasz and also a bit intimidating with those strong arms from having taken up her husband's trade after he'd passed. But this stranger seemed like a man who could probably hold his own in most situations, and perhaps he found her strength an appealing match to his.

“B-biggest c-celebration of winter. B-best of the year if you ask m-me.”

His stammer was easing now. While the stranger was still an imposing figure in his cloak and armour and leathers, even sitting down, he seemed friendly enough and genuinely curious about the revelry around him. For now though, he seemed happy to sit at the shadowed end of the bar for now asking Tomasz questions.

“I've seen plenty of villages with some kind of celebration to mark the Solstice, but I noticed from the decorations—garlands and evergreen wreaths outside, the dried flowers arranged in here—that you all put quite a bit of effort into this. More than usual. I take it that in local custom this is a more significant celebration than most.”

Tomasz's face lit up at the chance to share the story. Despite the fact that his stutter made him self-conscious, he considered himself a story-teller. He sometimes did puppet-shows for the children on May Day when they celebrated the arrival of spring and the end of the last snows, and his friends would often encourage him to retell anecdotes because, as Natalia put it, “ you make it sound so much more interesting than I remember.”

Taking a breath, he focused on the story he was about to tell, trying avoid where he could words that gave him more trouble. Over a century ago, long enough ago that no one could remember the exact names, a wasting sickness had come over the village, accompanied by an ever-present pall of clouds. The crops that year struggled with the limited light and the villagers were nearly all too weak to work the fields. Even the animals began to fall ill and, as news reached the surrounding area, everyone stayed away. No supplies, no offers to help bring in the harvest. They were abandoned, their neighbours fearful of catching the illness, or of bringing home the curse that blighted the sky in their valley.

There was talk of relocating, but they felt strongly for this place they had built together. Eventually, they were all too sick and weak to do much more than lie down in their homes and wait to die, and the talk of moving ended. Finally, one-by-one, their children began to vanish as winter washed over the village. A final tragedy on top of the misery that was their current lives. It was literally, and figuratively, the darkest time in the history of the settlement.

Then, on the longest night of the year, a stranger came to the village. A young woman, white-haired and bearing a silver sword inscribed with unfamiliar markings. She spoke to the remaining village elders, who explained their plight. After hearing their story, she offered to help, believing that something in the nearby marshes might be to blame for the curse of darkness and wasting illness, even the disappearing children. In return, she asked only to be able to overwinter in the village until such time as it was safe to travel the open roads. The villagers accepted her help, though they had given up hope of any resolution except the grave to their situation.

Sure enough, though, two days later the young woman returned to the village. There was a slash across her face and damage to her leather armour, but she was otherwise whole. More importantly, trailing behind her in the snow were several of the missing children. That night, the clouds parted and for the first time in months the villagers could see the stars. From what meagre rations they had, they offered her a dinner portion, for she must be famished, but she shook her head and insisted that they keep for themselves what they had. By morning, despite he saying she needed to stay the winter she was gone, and they were concerned for her, as the winter was a bitter one. However, their fears were soon allayed as within a day a cart was seen on the roads, driven by a man they recognized as the miller from a nearby village. Evidently their saviour had told them of their plight and, evidently, they also owed her a debt from slaying a wraith that had taken up residence in a burned-out hut uncomfortably close to the main road in and out of town. When the villagers asked who they owed this favour to, she had only said she was a witcher-girl with a smile and left. That had been years ago, but when she returned she had looked the same.

The witcher-girl never returned to Łapy, but to this day they honoured her memory both for slaying whatever foul being had cursed them and for trading in a favour that saw them through the winter afterwards. On the darkest night of the year, they gather to sing and share what they have grown and made over the growing and harvest seasons, to kick their heels up at the darkness while they danced and trample fear until it bleeds daylight. And every year, Tomasz finished, they set a table in the corner for her, in case she felt like stopping by some day to claim that favour.

“Hmmm.”

“Y-you did n-not like the story?” Tomasz could not get a read on the stranger's tone.

“No, it is a good story. But with one major problem: there is not such thing as a witcher-girl.”

“W-well, someone saved the town, and all the accounts a-agreed that it were a white-haired woman with a silver sword who hunted monsters. I'm not sure what else you would call that. Witchers a-are a curious lot, th-there's not many who c-could say they know everything about them.”

The stranger laughed knowingly, and lowered his hood before turning from his ale to look Tomasz directly in the face. Taken aback by what he saw, the story-teller gasped. The traveller's face was lined with worry and care, but did not look as old as the white hair tied back from his face made him appear. In fact, Tomasz imagined that it was a face that the ladies usually found quite handsome, and was somehow improved by the scars left presumably by the claws of some beast. In fact, there was nothing about the face particularly shocking until you got to the eyes currently staring into Tomasz's own. Bright yellow, gleaming in the dim light with slit pupil's like a cat's.

“Y-you're a-”

“A witcher? Yes. So trust me when I say that I have seen no such thing as a witcher-girl in all my years. Though there are women warriors and monster-hunters, I can say with confidence that whoever saved your village, she wasn't a witcher.”

Tomasz nodded numbly.

“But I thank you for your story. It's one I hadn't heard before, and your people should be commended for still keeping the spirit of your bargain.” He said this last part with a nod towards the table set for the fabled witcher-girl, should she decide to come visit. “I'll not be keeping you from your friends any longer. They look like they're having fun over there. And it looks like there's a pretty red-haired maiden in need of a dance partner.” he finished, gesturing towards Natalia and Piotr and Kacper, who had just started up a new song around the fire, with several couples dancing merrily together while Natalia skipped gracefully between them alone.

“Oh, N-Natalia...she, I mean we...w-we're j-just—” the witcher shook his head and cut him off before he could finish.

“I'm not normally one for crowds or conversation, so I'll be paying for my room and heading up there in a moment, but here's my payment for your company and telling me a story I hadn't heard before: you should ask her to dance.”

“B-but she wouldn't, I mean I-I assume she f-fancied someone else. M-maybe P-Piotr on the fiddle.”

“I will agree the boy is handsome, but I disagree for one simple reason: every time she passes by this side of the group of dancers, it's not the fiddle-player she looks towards. Now, go dance with her and leave me to finish my ale and pay for the room.”

Red-faced and a little afraid of the witcher, Tomasz stumbled slightly from nerves (and perhaps the liquor) as he swung his feet over the bench and headed towards the circle of dancers. With his witcher's senses, Geralt could not help but overhear him nervously ask this Natalia to dance or her response, laughing in equal parts delight and relief.

“Oh, Tomasz, I thought you're really never ask.”

From his corner at the edge of the bar, Geralt of Rivia watched as they linked arms and twirled in front of the fire, a warm light stabbing at the heart of the darkest night of winter. Natalia laughing and Tomasz beaming and with a look in his eyes that suggested he was still unsure he was not dreaming. And as he watched them, the witcher remembered the scent of lilac and gooseberries and wondered when next it would be she and him who embraced in front of a hearth. He shook his head to dislodge this uncharacteristically maudlin mood, paid for his room and headed up to bed to dream of enchantresses and springtime.

**Author's Note:**

> As I was saying in the beginning notes, because Ciri is the Lady of Space and Time, this weirdly happens a century or more *after* she visited this place but before she meets Geralt as far as Geralt is concerned. My Witcher knowledge is mostly from reading the fiction and watching the TV show and I actually just started playing Witcher 3 this week, so forgive me if Ciri's time/space weirdness doesn't work exactly like that.


End file.
